


Birds of Variegated Feather

by recoveringrabbit



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, also a cat, meet cute, used bookstore AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 21:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16227692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: In which Jemma discovers the joys of marginalia, and proves Virginia Woolf right: among "the random miscellaneous company" of used books, one actually might meet "some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world."





	Birds of Variegated Feather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyOwnLittleCorner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOwnLittleCorner/gifts).



Jemma brushed the lingering dust off her hands and pulled her ponytail holder from her hair, surveying the small shop with the rosy glow of a job well done. The shelves dusted, sections tidy, incoming books catalogued, priced, and run in—all duties, therefore, discharged—she had forty-five minutes left of her shift and no responsibility beyond assisting any customers that might wander in to Bodley Used Books. “Plenty of time,” she said to Jennyanydots, the bookstore cat.

Jenny licked a lazy paw in response.

Used to Jenny’s lethargic condescension, Jemma took that in the spirit it was meant and bolted for the back room, falling to her knees beside a cardboard box neatly labeled “Jemma’s Project—please don’t shelve or sell” and diving eagerly in. The book she had been reading on her last shift waited atop the other twenty or so in the box, a florescent bit of paper sticking out the top to mark her place. She held the book to her chest as she hurried back out, nearly tripping on Jenny in the exact middle of the walkway, then set it reverently on the counter and flipped it open at the marker. “What do you think it’ll be today, Jenny? Something fascinating, no doubt.”

Jenny yawned, flicked her tail; Jemma knew she wasn’t as nonchalant as she seemed and ran a finger down the margin. Not finding what she was after, she flipped the next page breathlessly, and the next when that one proved disappointing as well. _Foundations of statistical mechanics: a deductive treatment_ required rather more attention than Jemma was giving it, but, being familiar with the principles, she wasn’t bothered with working out the problem sets. No, her quarry was the marginalia.

This book, along with twenty others of similar density in shape and subject, had come in about a month before and been left immediately for Jemma—the only person attached to the store to know anything about science—to deal with. Quickly discovering every book in the box was both ancient and annotated, Jemma would have dumped the whole thing had her eye not been caught by a note scrawled in _Mathematical Biophysics_ (3rded., 1960): IS THIS PHYSICS?!

She scowled at the unknown defacer. Of course biophysics was physics; bodies were _bodies_ , equally subject to the rules of motion and energy and force, and deserved to be studied as much as anything. If all the commentary was so idiotic they wouldn’t even be able to sell these on eBay. She couldn’t in good conscience allow it. The next annotation—a brief THAT’S DISGUSTING—did nothing to convince her otherwise, and the one after that, a long screed completely filling the margin, didn’t even relate to the text. On first read-through. After following the long arrow to a star on the previous page, however, Jemma realized the note was a highly intriguing speculative application of the author’s assertion and that it continued for several more pages, a sideways but relevant digression. The next time she looked up, a half-hour had passed and the book was now full of post-its with her commentary on the unknown annotator’s ideas. She was therefore forced to reassess.

Each of her intervening shifts had been part of this project; when the rest of her work was done she got out pen and paper, stroked Jenny, and fell head over heels into the blue ink scratchings and graphite drawings of the mysterious physics polymath. Despite the age of the texts, the ideas were new and exciting—all of them, even the ones Jemma’s more specialized knowledge problematized. And there was such a wide _range_ of ideas, across so many subsets of the field; she hadn’t ever come across someone who could so easily match her diversified ability. Technically she hadn’t _yet_. No concrete clues to the former owner remained—no nameplate, no library hold slips, no bits of junk mail—so Jemma was left to her own imagination. Probably an elderly professor recently deceased, his (realistically his) office cleaned out by grieving children. Sad, that his ideas never came to light, but she would be sure to mention it if she ever built on the concepts in her own work.

Today, chin in both hands as she read happily, she had added two more pages to her notebook when the bell over the door tinkled merrily. “Hello!” she called, unable to see around the shelves, “welcome in!”

A young man wearing what looked to be a very cozy jumper appeared in the aisle, forehead creased into a frown. “Hi. What do you do with books people donate?”

Jemma blinked, her customer smile sliding slightly. “We sell them.”

“All of them?”

“Well, no, not all—some aren’t suitable for our clientele, or are in too poor condition.”

“If they’re written in, maybe?”

Glancing down at the book between her elbows, she nodded. “That’s one reason.”

He nearly stepped on Jenny as he came closer, stopping from treading on her tail just at the last moment. “Sorry, cat. What do you do with the unsuitable books?”

“Some we sell online. Others we throw away.”

The man groaned, dragging his hand over his face and disarranging the curls above his now obviously worried brow. “Do you, by any chance, keep records of books you have donated and then sell? Could you see if they were still in the system, or where they went?”

His voice grew increasingly desperate the longer he spoke, making the slight Scottish burl she had noticed first thing go from “a hint” to “rolling”. “Sir,” she said, putting her pen neatly across her notepad, “if you’ll explain your situation in full, I’ll be better able to tell you how I can help.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, he came up to the counter and slumped against the chest-high ledge. At this distance, the dark circles under his eyes were nearly as striking as the sea-deep blue above. “It’s like this,” he said. “I’ve been away this term, guest lecturing. The provided flat was the size of a handkerchief—”

“—as they always are.”

“Right,” he said, “so I didn’t take everything I owned, just for a few months. I cleaned out my flat and moved my things into my old room.”

“Reasonable,” she agreed.

“My mum, who I love dearly, asked if she could go through it and clear some stuff out, give her more room for storage—well, why not? I’m sure there’s loads of stuff I don’t need.”

“Oh dear,” Jemma said, already knowing where this story would end. The man nodded, grim.

“I didn’t know she would think my books were fair game. To be fair to her she did only get rid of really old ones—I’m in a field where things get outdated, so she figured I didn’t need them anymore? But—”

“Books are never fair game. I understand.”

“It’s just,” he said, looking up through sinfully long eyelashes, “I bought them out of my allowance. They’re full of my old notes. They’re important.”

“Of _course_ they are.” She put as much feeling as she could into it, determined this poor man not feel badly for wanting his own books. Didn’t she have shelves of old tomes she hadn’t read in years, but might need again someday? Her mother’s legacy, just as her love of space was from her father. “They’re like a part of you, your old books. They can be.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up into a lopsided smile, pushing his eyebrows into more pleasant lines and making his eyes look like the sea on holiday. Then he ducked his head and began tracing the crack in the counter with one long finger. “She brought them here. It’s been a bit, but I thought, maybe...”

“We can certainly look.” A thought occurring to her, she canted her head and drew her eyebrows together. “If they’re old, though, and you’ve written in them, they’ll likely be online stock. I’ll have to have Skye check those—she does the online business—and she isn’t here today. Perhaps you could leave a list of the titles?”

He was nodding before she finished her sentence, already patting his pockets. “Yeah, yeah—there were more than a few of them, but I can remember some titles. Maybe she’ll remember the rest. They were pretty outlandish, probably hard to forget.”

Jemma handed him the pen she had been using and passed him her own notebook, flipped to a clean page. “She loves outlandish titles. I’m sure she’ll be able to help.”

“Thanks.” He put pen to paper, but looked up before starting to write. “I, er, don’t mean to keep you from your work. You can ignore me.”

“Oh! Right. Thanks.” She took a step back, hands twisting together, and huffed an awkward laugh. She could hardly go back to what she was doing before—it wasn’t very polite to read in front of customers—but it wasn’t as though she had anything else to do. Considering pulling up a game of solitaire, she was saved by the arrival of a customer with a stack of books to trade. The man at the counter scooted over, still writing furiously, as she made small talk with the new customer and began sorting through the stack.

“There,” he said after another minute, the new customer having drifted away to scan the shelves, “that’s all I can remember. I, er, left my name and number, so you can ring me if you find anything out.”

“Excellent. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.” She moved a book to the _price_ pile and smiled at him, trying her best to reassure. “I hope it’ll work out.”

“Yeah. Me too.” He shuffled from one foot to the other, crossing his arms over his chest and reaching up to tug on an earlobe. His jumper, she noted, had leather elbow patches. “Thanks for your help...?”

“Jemma!” She offered her hand over the counter and he shook it firmly. “It’s my pleasure.”

“Mine too.” Letting go of her hand, he swayed forward on his toes like he wanted to say something else. Then, apparently deciding against it, he turned, stooped to pat Jenny’s head as it bobbed around his ankles, and left the store to the _ding-a-ling_ of the bell.

Jemma peeked at the customer still in the store—who appeared to be happily browsing supernatural romance—and, after silent consultation with Jenny, decided she could spare a few minutes from processing the new books to quickly check the list. She probably wouldn’t recognize anything, but just to be sure.

THANKS FOR YOUR HELP, it said in block letters at the top, followed by his name, FITZ, and number as promised. Then, indented slightly, the list began MATHEMATICAL BIOPHYSICS (3RD ED. 1960)...

She gasped, dropping the notebook on top of the book she had been reading— _his_ book, along with the rest of the box she had been savoring. So, _not_ a deceased elderly professor then? she managed to think, starting halfway around the counter before realizing she couldn’t just leave the shop with a customer in it and grabbing for the phone instead.

“Mr. Fitz?” she said when he picked up, “It’s Jemma, from the bookstore.”

“Yes?” he said, wary.

“It’s just—I actually have your books here. The whole box.”

He returned in about thirty seconds flat, but had to wait for her to finish ringing up with other customer’s six vampire love-ins. “How do you have them?” he demanded as soon as the bell stopped ringing.

Closing _Foundations of statistical mechanics_ and handing it to him with some regret, she felt better at seeing the delight spread across his face. “I was asked to go through them to see if they would be worth trying to sell. And then I saw all your notes.”

“Not good for selling, I guess,” he said, stroking the book’s spine.

“No,” she admitted, “but that wasn’t it. I thought they were brilliant and I wanted to read them. I’ve been making my own notes—oh, I forgot, some of your books have my Post-it notes in them. I’ll clear them out if you’ll give me a minute to bring them from the back?”

“Sure. And I promise I won’t rob your till.”

“That would be an elaborate ruse.”

Returning from the back, she found him sitting on the ground with his back to the counter, idly petting Jenny with one hand while the other slowly turned the pages. She shoved the box over with her foot until it rested next to him, then sat on its other side and pulled open the flaps. He peered over the side. “You weren’t kidding about the sticky notes. What did you say they were?”

“Notes,” she said, picking up _Mathematical Biophysics_ and opening it to peel out the first Post-it. “You had some interesting ideas and some that were, well, simply incorrect—”

“Excuse me?” he said, closing _Foundations_ quickly.

She flapped an unconcerned hand. “I’m a biochemist, usually, so I know a bit about it. Not all of these things, of course, but enough to have an idea.”

His eyebrows drew together and he set his book aside. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t think women in STEM had difficulty finding jobs in their field.”

“We don’t. I’m between things at the moment—just for a few months—and I’m only here to help out in the meantime. Your books have been my mental treat.” She laughed, holding up the stack of sticky notes she had removed from the book. “As you see. But I’m very glad to have them return to you.”

Taking another book from the box, he opened it to a random note and stared at the page, tilting it to read his commentary and then hers. “I feel a little bad. If I take my books you’ll lose your notes. That is if they’re all about my stuff—I don’t want to assume—”

“No, they are.” She frowned, turning the notes over between her fingers. “I didn’t think it through, I suppose. I thought you were dead, honestly. I didn’t know why anyone would have all these old books if they weren’t ninety.”

“Bought them at library sales for cheap.” He grimaced. “Teaching myself—didn’t always have the best resources. You have to learn somehow.”

“You certainly do.” Tilting her head, she had a image of his smaller self digging through boxes of cheap books to come up with these, head bent over them as he worked out the problem on bits of scrap paper. It was utterly endearing, and entirely removed any regret she had about losing the books themselves. Of course they belonged with him. Clambering to her feet, she dusted off her knees and spoke briskly. “Well, I think I only have notes in a few of them. If you’ll hand them up I’ll take care of it.”

“Sure,” he said absently, but she waited behind the counter for a few minutes without any sign of movement from him. Jenny grew tired of his attention and strolled away, leaping up to a shelf to make significant, if inscrutable, eye contact with Jemma. With nothing else to do and not understanding entirely what Jenny meant to tell her, Jemma returned to processing the new books, intentionally ignoring the sadly unmoored pile of sticky notes on the counter beside her.

“So—” Mr. Fitz popped his head up, his finger in a book still bristling with brightly colored paper, “er, thank you for saving my books and taking good care of them. It really means...” He trailed off, shaking his head, and changed the subject. “How much is it?”

“Is what?”

“The books. How much to buy them back?”

Across the way, Jenny gave a quiet chuckle; Jemma did the same. “Nothing, of course! They’re your books. We haven’t even put them in the system.”

He frowned. “That doesn’t seem right. They were donated; you were going to sell them, and now you just...won’t?”

Trying and failing to bite back a smile, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Truth be told, we were never going to sell them. I would just leave the box in the back until my mother got tired of tripping on it and told me to take them home.”

“Your...mother?”

“Owns the shop. So she won’t mind if I give them to you, really.”

This news seemed to disconcert him, but his mouth formed a firm line and he shook his head again. “I wouldn’t feel right just  _taking_ them, though.”

“I tell you what,” Jemma said, egged on by Jenny’s wise yellow eyes. “I’m closing the shop in fifteen minutes. What if you bought me a pot of tea and we called it even?”

He looked at her, mouth dropping open a little, then over at Jenny, then down at the book he still held. Then, looking back at her again, he visibly gulped and said, voice shaking but not at all uncertain, “I don’t know, it’s a lot of books. I think dinner would really be more fair.”

**Author's Note:**

> The full quote attributed to Virginia Woolf: "Second-hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world."
> 
> Jennyanydots is NOT a Cats reference, but a T.S. Eliot reference...yes, I know they're nearly the same. Leave me alone.


End file.
